


Ian in His Life

by Englishtutor



Series: A Watson When You Need One [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthstory, Gen, Naptime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 07:23:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6844735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englishtutor/pseuds/Englishtutor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock puts Ian down for a nap, he finds time to re-organize his Mind Palace--and discovers Ian's birthstory.  How Sherlock helped to bring Ian Watson into the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Naptime

“I’m free,” a little voice spoke from behind his head. 

“Hmm?” Sherlock was sprawled on the floor, back resting against the couch on which Ian was lying, scrolling diligently on his laptop which was perched before him on the coffee table. In order to save time, he was researching their latest case while John and Mary were out interrogating witnesses (“Interviewing, Sherlock, just interviewing!” John had sighed).

This left Ian in Sherlock’s charge for the afternoon. 

John had tucked the child into a make-shift bed on the couch for his nap before leaving, but Ian was apparently not sleeping. “I’m free, Unco Sh’ock,” Ian repeated insistently from behind Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock, deep in research mode, was only faintly aware of the boy’s comment and dedicated only a fraction of his consciousness to answering it. “Freedom, if defined as complete liberty from external influences upon one’s thoughts and actions, is an illusion and impossible to achieve,” he murmured, studying various shipping lanes in the North Atlantic. “Societal laws, conventions, traditions, customs, and mores will always impact one’s thought processes in ways that cannot be easily counteracted—one is not always even aware of how one’s culture binds one to itself. And the pressure, even the fear, of disapproval from one’s peers, not to mention the threat of arrest and imprisonment, will curtail an individual’s freedom of action and encourage if not force one to behave in accordance with societal norms. While this may seem harsh or unfair, it is actually a good thing; if everyone did what pleased himself, we would be overrun with criminal behaviour and awash in the blood of the innocent.”

Ian sighed a very Watson-like sigh. “No, Unco Sh’ock, I AM free!” he protested plaintively.

Sherlock pulled up ships’ manifests from the past two weeks, his mind on the case, his mouth on auto-pilot. “If you mean you’re not enslaved, that’s true up to a point. And of course, as a British subject, you were born with certain rights and privileges to which the citizens of many less fortunate countries cannot aspire,” he droned on, his attention focused on his research. “But since you are still a minor, you are subject to your parents’ authority and cannot yet exercise those rights or privileges freely. In additiomph.” His mouth was suddenly muffled by two small hands wrapping around from behind his head. The detective dutifully dragged his mind out of his computer and placed his full attention on his persistent little nephew.

“Stop talking now,” Ian stated in the same faintly amused tone of mild command his father often used on the detective. Sherlock smirked behind the child’s fingers. Little John, indeed.

Ian tumbled from the couch, a plush bear stuffed under one arm, and stood beside his uncle. Speaking as if he were addressing a half-wit with a hearing problem, the boy said slowly, “I. Am. Free.” And held up three fingers.

“Oh.” Sherlock frowned. “Yes, of course you’re three. I was at your party, remember? I gave you a ‘Visible Man’ ® anatomical model. Why state the obvious?”

“I’m free, so I don’t need a nap,” Ian explained earnestly.

Sherlock nodded sombrely. “I can see you’ve put a great deal of thought into this,” he said. “However, as I previously stated, you are a minor and subject to the authority of your parents. So in this case, neither your opinion nor mine can be considered—only the opinion of your mum and dad counts. And since it was your dad who put you down for a nap, we can safely assume he intends for you to take one.”

Ian huffed impatiently. “I’m not sweepy.” The impact of his statement was unfortunately marred by an ill-timed yawn.

“It doesn’t matter. Sleep or don’t sleep, as you will. But lie down and rest for an hour or when your dad gets home we will both be in trouble.” Here Sherlock rose from the floor and picked his nephew up, giving him a quick and surreptitious cuddle (which he would have denied doing if anyone had pointed it out to him), and plopped the child back onto the couch, covering him with the comforter and tucking the plush bear into his arms.

Ian sighed in resignation. “Okay,” he conceded. “But I need water first.”

Sherlock studied the little face. Huge, innocent blue eyes. Cherubic expression. He sighed. “I know perfectly well you’re not thirsty.”

“Pwease.” Puppy-dog eyes pleaded with him. Who could refuse that face? Sherlock stalked into the kitchen, feeling completely manipulated but having no resistance whatsoever. And then the bouncing noise began.

“Ian, do you not remember what happened last time you jumped on the couch?” Sherlock demanded sternly, striding back into the living room.

Ian stopped bouncing, dropped his bear, and sat down abruptly. “I faw and cut my head,” he admitted.

“So do you feel it wise to tempt fate again in that fashion?” his uncle asked, handing the child a cupful of water.

Ian shook his head cheerfully. “I’m sorry, Unco Sh’ock,” he bubbled into the cup and giggled condescendingly. Feeling a bit patronized, Sherlock took the cup back and reinstalled child and bear underneath the comforter.

“Mum ‘n Dad kiss me when they tuck me in,” Ian reminded him seriously. Sherlock obligingly leant over and kissed the boy’s forehead. Odd, how natural such an action seemed to him now. Wouldn’t his mother be surprised! And as for Mycroft—“Sentiment, brother mine,” Mycroft would sigh, shaking his head. Sherlock looked at the precious little boy and found he didn’t care what Mycroft or their mother thought.

“Kiss boring,” the child said. The detective felt a bit affronted.

“Hmm. I may not be as practiced at it as your mother, who seems to bestow kisses as freely as a flower-girl strews petals at a wedding; but I’ve been told by some who would be in a position to know that I’m quite a good kisser,” Sherlock protested.

“No! Kiss Boring!” Ian demanded, shoving his plush bear under his uncle’s nose insistently.

Ah! The bear was called Boring! Sherlock recoiled in repugnance. Surely this was above and beyond the call of duty for any child-minder! But there was his nephew, all crooked little grin and sparkling eyes, head haloed with angelic blond hair, looking at him expectantly; and he was rendered completely powerless. He, Sherlock Holmes--whose very name struck terror into the hearts of the most dangerous, ruthless criminals on the planet—was reduced to mere putty in a three-year-old’s hands! He picked up the toy and gingerly planted a kiss on the fuzzy nose. Oh, if Mycroft saw this! Or anyone else, for that matter!

“And how,” he wondered, bewildered, “did your bear acquire the unlikely but perfectly appropriate appellation of ‘Boring’?”

Ian giggled. “Mum a’ways says, ‘I can’t Bear Boring people,’” he explained. 

Sherlock Holmes laughed more frequently than those who did not know him intimately might believe. He often laughed sarcastically, cynically, sometimes even bitterly. But only a Watson could cause him to nearly collapse helplessly with a hilarity borne of pure joy.

“All right, now, it’s time to go to sleep,” he said, once he’d got himself under control. “You and Boring must have your kip. Close your eyes, close your mouth, and breathe deeply through the nose.”

“Not sweepy,” Ian protested, but again his delivery of this statement was marred by an impressively skull-splitting yawn. He obeyed his uncle and screwed his eyes tightly shut.

Sherlock, in his turn, settled back onto the floor in front of the couch, pulled his knees up to his chest, and began to determine the weather patterns and ocean currents in the North Atlantic on the day the deceased must have been dumped from the fishing boat. By locating the exact spot on the shore where the body was discovered and extrapolating from there. . . . 

“I need a story, Unco Sh’ock,” Ian spoke suddenly. 

“No you don’t. Your father read you a storybook before he left,” Sherlock reminded him.

“Don’t wanna book. Wanna hear a case,” Ian persisted. “The one ‘bout Chinese Ackerbacks. You know, when dad was all tied up to the chair but saved you and Sarah from the bad men anyways.”

Sherlock dropped his head to his knees in frustration. “Chinese Acrobats,” he corrected. “And I can’t tell you about that case again. Your mother has given me strict guidelines concerning stories about cases.”

“Rule One: no stories in which anyone Ian cares about is in danger of his or her life. He worries when we’re out of his sight for days afterwards!” Mary had told him just the day before. “Rule Two: no stories in which Ian’s father kills, tries to kill, or threatens to kill anyone. Ian seems to think his dad is some sort of super-hero who goes about destroying criminals left and right. He is, of course, but Ian doesn’t need to know about it. Oh, and Rule Three: absolutely no stories in which Irene Adler features. He came home the other day asking me what a ‘matrix’ is—took me ages to realize what he was actually trying to say! Now he’s going to grow up thinking sadomasochism is some sort of mathematical construct.”

These rules effectively eliminated approximately ninety percent of their cases as unsuitable for Ian’s consumption.

Sherlock decided to tell his nephew about the time his mother had thwarted a pair of bank robbers whilst locked inside the bank vault. It was one of his own, personal favourites; and after all, how could Mary object to a story in which she herself was the heroine? Wisely, he left out the part at the end where she shot one of the robbers with his partner’s gun. And the part where she told Aunt Molly to carve the captured robber to bits with her (illegal) Italian stiletto switchblade if he so much as moved!

At last, Ian’s eyes drifted shut again and Sherlock began to carefully study the notes John had just emailed to him of the testimony of the witnesses he and Mary were interrogating.

“Unco Sh’ock, sing a song,” Ian murmured sleepily.

“I don’t sing songs,” Sherlock intoned absently.

“Mummy and Dad a’ways sing me a song,” Ian whined a bit.

Sherlock sighed. “I don’t know any lullabies.”

“They doesn’t sing those. Dad sings a Sting song,” Ian persisted. 

“A what?” Sherlock pulled his attention back to the child once again. “What does that mean? A Sting song?”

“Don’t ‘member what’s its name.” Ian sat up and began to sing in a wavering little voice, “‘If blood will flow when flesh and steel are one, drying in the colour of the evening sun. . . .’” Sherlock’s mouth dropped open in astonishment.

“Ian!” he exclaimed. “Listen to yourself! Can you hear what you’re singing?”

“Dad say it’s ‘bout not hurtin’ people,” Ian explained.

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. Did you hear yourself? You formed all of your ‘L’ sounds correctly while you sang! That’s astounding!”

The little boy grinned. “I sing good!”

Sherlock grinned back. “You sing well!” he corrected. “I don’t know this song you’re speaking of, but I will find it on YouTube and play it for you if you will go to sleep. Deal?”

Ian agreed, and Sherlock did a quick search on his phone for an artist with the unlikely name of ‘Sting’. Soon he was back to work on his laptop while Ian drowsed to the gentle tune of “Fragile”. And before the last chord, the little boy was finally having a proper nap, and Sherlock had successfully solved his case.

000

Here are the lyrics to Sting’s beautiful song. And, yes, I sing it to my grandchildren as a lullaby. Incidentally, I do NOT recommend giving a “Visible Man” anatomic model to a three-year-old, no matter how precocious!

Fragile  
If blood will flow when flesh and steel are one  
Drying in the colour of the evening sun  
Tomorrow's rain will wash the stains away  
But something in our minds will always stay  
Perhaps this final act was meant  
To clinch a lifetime's argument  
That nothing comes from violence and nothing ever could  
For all those born beneath an angry star  
Lest we forget how fragile we are

On and on the rain will fall  
Like tears from a star, like tears from a star  
On and on the rain will say  
How fragile we are, how fragile we are


	2. Ian's Birth, Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in honour of the birth of my newest grandchild, which I was privileged to witness. It happened pretty much as I've written it here, except that the midwife arrived on time and uninjured.

He rose from his place on the floor and settled himself into his leather armchair, from which he had a good view of his peacefully napping nephew. The familiar spread of warm affection through his chest when contemplating this small Watson never failed to amaze him.

Who could have supposed that another human being could evoke such a sense of the sentimental in him? Even John and Mary, for whom he admittedly felt great fondness and even a protectiveness, were as important to him for what they gave him as for what he could give them in their relationship. Ian could offer Sherlock nothing one could measure; and yet he did give immeasurable treasure-troves of intangibles, such as a sense of responsibility and a desire to be a better man and one deserving of a child’s trust.

Sherlock had been aware of late that Ian had been slowly building a room all his own onto the Watson Wing of his Mind Palace. It was, however, the detective noted, as chaotic and randomized as a toddler’s own mind. It behoved him, he considered, to reorder this turbulent mess before it grew completely untameable. Now that his case was solved and he had nothing to do but wait for John and Mary’s return, this seemed a good time to tackle that task.

Where to begin? Obviously, Ian’s existence had begun at conception; but this did not interest Sherlock in the least-- it had absolutely nothing to do with him. Likewise, although Ian’s growth in-utero had been fascinating to watch-- a sort of on-going experiment in human development--as John was wont to remind him, Sherlock was merely an observer in the process: Mary was doing all of the work. 

“I am so completely useless,” Mary had complained at one point, huge and largely immobile near the end of her ninth month along. “I haven’t done a thing all day but lie on the sofa, and I haven’t done that very well.” 

John had replied with a loving smile, “Nonsense, love. You’ve been quite busy gestating all day. What better use of one’s time than to create another human being?” And he had made her (and Sherlock’s) dinner and rubbed her back and done other solicitous things that made her absurdly happy and content. Sherlock reflected that this ability to say and do charming things at just the right moment might have been the reason behind John’s army reputation with the ladies as “Three Continents Watson”. It was certainly the reason Mary was purring like a spoiled kitten by the end of the evening.

But that was beside the point. Sherlock himself had had little to do with Ian’s life before he was born other than to occasionally kneel before the child’s mother and help her put on her socks and shoes after she had lost the ability to reach—or indeed, even to see--her own feet.

Ian’s birth, however! Now, Sherlock had had a great hand in that event. What, as Mary had told him afterwards, would they have done without him? 

000

To begin with, he had not been at all surprised to find that Mary intended to give birth at home. After all, why would anyone want to be in hospital if one could help it? Giving birth was a perfectly natural biological process, much like eating and sleeping; not a disease or an injury to be treated by medical professionals with cold hands and harsh, fluorescent lighting. What did astonish the detective was to find his friends diligently shopping for a midwife. What, he wondered, did two perfectly competent doctors such as themselves need with outside interference—erm, help?

“Mary can’t deliver her own baby,” John had chuckled. “And I have no intention of playing attending physician, Sherlock,” he had gone on to explain seriously. “I want to be the supportive husband and excited father, and leave the medical stuff to someone else.” 

Then to Sherlock’s further surprise, Mary had asked him to attend the birth as well. “It’s the accepted thing now to have family present, the people who will be important in the baby’s life. You will be a large part of Ian’s life, Sweetheart. You should be there from the beginning.” 

And so, having been officially invited into the proceedings at hand, Sherlock had soberly taken it upon himself to spend days in serious research, to prepare a thirty-six-page questionnaire for potential midwives, and to administer thorough interrogations (“Interviews, Sherlock. These are just interviews!” John had said in his most exasperated tone) of the candidates. Even John had to admit that the midwife they eventually selected, having been the only one to endure the entire process and win through with her good-will intact, was obviously the best one for the job.

Imagine their consternation, then, when all of their careful planning went for naught!

Sherlock had taken, during the final weeks of Mary’s gestation period, to spending all of his spare time at the Watson flat in order that he might be on hand the moment he was needed. It was excruciatingly boring. Mary had all the energy levels of a dormant clam; and John spent most of his time hopping about taking care of such mundane tasks as doing the shopping, paying the bills, helping Mary off the sofa to go to the loo, keeping up with the laundry, cooking nutritious meals, helping Mary back onto the sofa after she returned from the loo, and accumulating the equipment they would need for the impending home-birth. As he watched all this horrifying ordinariness going on around him, Sherlock hoped his friends were appreciating his sacrifice in giving up his valuable time to be there for them. He even allowed himself to be coerced into helping—rubbing Mary’s swollen feet, for example; or making pots of tea; or putting dirty dishes into the dishwasher--and even turning it on.

And then came the momentous evening (why did births occur almost exclusively at night?) when Mary roused herself from contemplation of the abysmal telly, having suddenly felt the overpowering need to scrub the kitchen floor.

“She hasn’t been able to move freely for two weeks. Why is she doing that? And why are you allowing it?” Sherlock demanded of John severely. 

John gave a knowing smile. “It’s the nesting instinct kicking in,” he explained. “She’s in the beginning stages of labour now. And as for ‘allowing’ it, YOU try stopping her!” It seemed utterly incongruous, and yet John was correct in his assessment. Eschewing any offers of help with more impatience than was usual for her, Mary rearranged cupboards and scoured appliances with a vengeance. But after several hours of energetic cleaning, she began to stop periodically and clutch herself with a look of discomfort on her face—and then she would attack whatever she was cleaning again with renewed vigour. As the evening drew close to midnight, she stopped as suddenly as she had begun and sank heavily into her armchair.

“Ten minutes apart,” she announced wearily.

“That’s what I thought,” her astute doctor-husband, who had been keeping a close eye on her, replied, all business. He brewed Mary a cuppa and put her feet up; called the midwife and the midwife’s assistant; then went into the bedroom to change the sheets and set up equipment to prepare for the birth. Next he helped his wife out of her clothes and into a sort of tent-like garment and tucked her into bed. 

“Sleep while you can,” he advised her. “It could be a long night.” And Sherlock was astonished to see that Mary fell asleep on the instant.

“We should sleep, too, while we have the chance,” John told Sherlock, positioning himself in the chair nearest the door in order to let the midwife and her assistant in when they arrived. And they did manage to doze a bit in the quiet of the flat, waiting. Another several hours passed by and the midwife did not appear. Mary woke up, her labour pains accelerated to three minutes apart. Restless, she took to pacing about the flat, silently counting minutes and periodically freezing in place to endure another contraction. She took a shower, her husband leaning against the bathroom door to listen in case she needed him. She pulled her gown on again and paced anew, now pausing every three minutes. John soon joined her in pacing agitatedly about, pausing himself to jab the redial on his phone every few minutes. 

“Why are they taking so long,” John muttered, frowning. “Why don’t they answer the phone? There must be something wrong.” 

"Mmmmmph," Mary replied, in one of her frozen moments, hand on her belly. It was as articulate as she was capable of being at the moment.

Sherlock, not subject to nerves as his friend was, coolly pulled up traffic reports on his laptop and discovered a wreck reported on the very route the midwife must have taken. He then began to look up the nearest hospitals to the accident site and calling the numbers for patient information. Meanwhile, Mary froze, groaned, and resumed pacing agitatedly. It was then that her water broke.

“John,” Sherlock said calmly, but John was absorbed in helping his wife. “John. . . . John!”

“What!” John said distractedly, busy applying towels and administering comfort.

“I found them, John. The midwife and her assistant. They won’t be coming, I’m afraid. They’ve been admitted to hospital.”

“Oh, good god!” John was aghast. He stopped what he was doing and looked at the detective. “Are they all right? What happened?” And "Oh, good lord,” Mary moaned, distressed. “Are they hurt?” John put a supportive arm around her.

“Car crash,” Sherlock had time to say, just as John’s phone rang. 

It was, of course, a nurse from the hospital in question, reporting that the midwife and her assistant had sustained injuries in an accident en route to the Watson’s flat and had been admitted with cracked ribs, lacerations, and concussions—nothing life-threatening, but they would have to be kept overnight for observation. They would not be available to deliver a Watson child.

“Thank god they’re all right,” John said in relief. “Well, on to Plan B, I suppose.” He called the midwife’s replacement, only to find that she was in bed with the ‘flu. 

“John,” Mary spoke up, doubling over and sounding desperate. “Transition!” Her husband gently supported her through another contraction.

“Really?” Sherlock perked up with real interest. “How do you know?”

The normally patient and gentle Mary ground out through gritted teeth, “I want . . . to rip . . . someone’s . . . head off!”

Sherlock was delighted to find that real life truly did match up to his research. However, he carefully remained out of arm’s reach from the impending mother.

Contraction over, the impending father sighed deeply and tossed his useless phone on the coffee table. “Right. Plan C, then,” he said in his Captain’s voice. “Sherlock, scrub up. It’s down to us, now.”


	3. Ian's Birth Part Two

Sherlock did not remember discussing a Plan C that included his involvement. It was his understanding that he was to stand back out of the way and let the professionals work. This directive had been rather disappointing after all of his research, of course, but he had consoled himself that observation of the event would be enlightening in itself. Now, being permitted to be actively involved was exciting! 

He watched as John settled Mary onto the bed on her hands and knees and tucked a number of pillows underneath her. “Does this help your back? Are you warm enough?” he asked, spreading a sheet over her, and she nodded briefly, hugging several pillows under her head. “All right, I’m going to get things ready. Call if you need me, yeah?” She didn’t reply—she was busy, labouring.

“Wash up and go sit by her head, Sherlock, and do whatever she asks of you,” John ordered sharply, aggrieved at seeing him just standing and watching. The detective huffed and stalked into the bathroom as John bustled about piling up towels and bringing a cup of ice and arranging equipment. 

He could hear Mary, humming a sort of prolonged moan, as he scrubbed up. Then, as Sherlock finished washing his hands, John shoved up next to him at the sink and began to scrub his hands and arms up the elbows with antibacterial soap. He was entirely Dr Watson now. “Why are you still here? Go and sit with the patient!” John ordered sternly.

“But John,” Sherlock objected uncertainly. Much as he relished the chance at this experience, he had been watching and listening to Mary and felt---distressed by her pain. Odd! But there it was. “Shouldn’t ‘Plan C’ be taking Mary to hospital? After all, you said you didn’t want to be attending physician, didn’t you?”

John shook his head. “She’s in transition now. Riding in any vehicle, cab or ambulance, would be nothing but misery for her, and I won’t put her through it as long as everything is progressing normally and no complications. Now, go in there and see to your patient! She’s been left alone too long.”

“MY patient?” Sherlock hesitated.

John now lost his patience in earnest. “Sherlock, we have two patients in there, and they each need and deserve someone’s full attention,” he exclaimed in full earnest. “Fortunately, there are two us here. One of us must care for Mary while the other delivers the baby.”

Sherlock’s face lit up eagerly. “I could . . . .”

“No. You really couldn’t,” John said, speaking with the same chilling voice he used when warning perpetrators that he was about to kill them. He shouldered past the taller man and went to the bed. “How’re you doing, love?” he asked, his voice now sounding entirely different—gentle and loving and comforting. 

“Mmmhmmm,” Mary hummed, rocking gently.

“You said you wanted to be ‘the supportive husband and excited father.’ I’ve done all the research, into every contingency,” Sherlock assured John, boldly taking his life into his own hands. John glared daggers at him. “I know I’m not experienced, but how much experience does one really need if there are, as you say, no complications? It’s a perfectly ordinary, biological event which practically progresses on its own without any need for . . . .”

“No,” John cut him off abruptly. “Giving birth is not a by-the-book event,   
Sherlock. Every one is different, and anything can happen. And I’m not about to put the life of my wife and baby into the hands of an inexperienced and insubordinate prat who can’t follow simple orders without being told twice. I am taking over from the midwife, and you are taking over from me. Go on, get to it!” John turned his back on Sherlock and began snapping on surgical gloves.

Sherlock sighed and approached the head of the bed. “Erm, Mary. Are you still head-hunting?” he inquired cautiously. 

Mary turned her head to look up at him and pulled a wry smile. “You may safely approach,” she assured him, her voice tired.

He gingerly sat by her head and looked around for something useful to do. “May I offer you an ice chip?” he suggested grandly. She managed a chuckle and accepted his offering and then asked him to massage the back of her neck.

Sherlock massaged and sighed. John was doing interesting things with medical instruments, but the sheet was in the way and he couldn’t see. It was so disappointing. There was nothing scientific about ice chips and neck rubs. 

“You’re looking good, my love. Nearly there,” John said in his cheerful, reassuring doctor voice. “And the baby’s heartbeat is perfect.” Mary hummed again in response.

“It’s no use, John! I don’t know how to be you! “Sherlock burst out in agony. “I didn’t research this part of the process. I assumed you would be being you,” He hated not being in control. He hated not knowing what to do.

Mary sniggered. “You’re doing fine, Sweetheart,” she murmured, her voice muffled in the pillows.

“Just do whatever she asks you,” John told him. “If she holds her breath, remind her to keep breathing through the contractions. And just talk to her—let her focus on the sound of your voice. Be encouraging.”

That sounded easy enough. Sherlock mentally rummaged through the copious files of information he had accumulated in preparation for this event and picked out the most encouraging facts he could find.

“Did you know that the global mortality rate for women in childbirth dropped from 500,000 a year in 1980 to 343,000 a year in 2008? Although, strangely,” he added thoughtfully, “the rate in the U.K. has remained nearly the same for the past 20 years. The infant mortality rate in this country is only. . . .”

“John!” Mary cried anxiously. “Make him stop encouraging me!”

“Sherlock!” John snapped, then stopped and shook his head. “Why don’t you just leave the encouraging to me, and you hold her hand and give her whatever she needs.”

This was something Sherlock knew how to do. Mary had been in the habit of grabbing his hand whenever she felt like it, and he had got used to the idea. It apparently gave her comfort; and to be honest, he had sometimes found the practice comforting himself. He reached between the pillows under Mary’s head and found her hand and took it gently in his. Then she began another contraction and squeezed. Sherlock winced. He’d no idea that Mary had such an iron grip! After a few more contractions, he began to wonder how many of the bones in his hand she’d cracked so far.

It seemed nothing interesting happened in ages and it was all dropping ice chips onto Mary’s tongue and massaging Mary’s back and letting her mangle his hand. And all the time he was listening to John drone on in low, comforting tones about how well she was doing and how strong the baby’s heart rate was and how wonderfully things were progressing and what an amazing woman Mary was and how much he adored her and how proud he was of her and blah, blah, blah. Sherlock supposed that this was John’s feeble way of being encouraging, but there was so little specific information offered and so few solid facts to grasp onto that he couldn’t imagine why such generalized drivel would be considered comforting.

But then suddenly it was time to push and events accelerated to a nice, fast pace. Sherlock was required to fetch hot water and to support Mary’s shoulders as she pushed and to wipe the sweat from her brow and to remind her to do her breathing. 

“You’re tensing up, love, you need to relax,” John said gently at one point. “Focus on my voice and relax.”

“Let me try being encouraging again, John. I’ve been listening to you do it for ages, and I think I’ve got the knack,” Sherlock interrupted. Anymore of John’s drivel and they would surely all become barking mad.

John looked Sherlock in the eye for a long moment. “All right, give it a go,” he sighed, “if it’s so important to you.”

The detective took a deep breath and began, “Mary, listen. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known, and vastly superior to most in nearly every way. I frankly admit that I admire you a great deal. However, you’ve been pushing for over 30 minutes now, and there are numerous records of women who, although inferior to you in every other way, have delivered babies in under 15 minutes. I am certain that if you apply yourself, you can accomplish this task quickly and at least beat the 40 minute . . . .”

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed, outraged, “you call that encouraging? She’s tensed up more than ever!”

“Not tensing,” Mary gasped out. “Laughing!”

John stared, amazed. “Well, stop it,” he grumbled. “It works out the same down this way.”

After that, Sherlock gave up on being encouraging, to everyone’s relief.

“He’s crowning!” John exclaimed at last, and Mary breathed out a happy little laugh. “He’s a blond—no surprise there. Masses of hair! One more try, my love, let’s get his head out. Good girl! There he is! Hold still now, let me turn him.”

Sherlock could not resist a peek and saw a tiny head, eyes clenched, mouth wide open in a silent howl of protest even though there was no air in the lungs to lend sound to the fury.

“You’re smirking,” Mary observed weakly. 

Sherlock smiled down at her. “He looks just like John,” he told her. “Yelling already!”

“Stop the laughing!” John ordered, but he was smiling as well. “All right, love, one more big push and we should be parents. Sherlock, get the blanket ready.”

And then it was over, and John was holding a warm, wet, squirming mass of humanity wrapped in a blanket whilst he suctioned the little mouth. A sudden deep breath and the child began screaming, furious with this sudden advent into a new world. Murmuring comforting words to the red-faced, angry infant, John clamped the cord and made the cut. A Watson had entered the world.

Mary had flipped herself over without help, scattering pillows every way possible, trying to see her accomplishment. John was examining his offspring with a doctor’s eye, but his voice held the pride of a new father. 

“He’s perfect, Mary. You made a perfect child,” her husband said in a reverent voice. “Sherlock help her prop herself so she can meet our son.”

Sherlock gathered scattered pillows and settled the new mother into a reclined position on her back. “Congratulations, Mary,” he said quietly. “That was . . . . quite remarkable.”

“Well, I didn’t do it all alone,” Mary smiled gently and reached out to take her baby into her arms for the first time. “Hello, little boy,” she crooned, soon quieting the child, and John sat beside her, tears in his eyes, one arm around his wife and the other hand stroking the baby’s soft hair. Sherlock watched this tender tableau with an affectionate warmth growing in his chest.

“What will you call him?” he asked at last, hovering beside them.

John grinned up at him. “Ian Scott Watson,” he told his friend, eyes twinkling.

Sherlock felt a sudden unusual sense of awe in spite of himself. “Ian is the Scottish version of John. And Scott is . . . .”

“Yes, you git,” John chuckled. “The Scott part is in your honour.”

But then it was back to business for the doctor. “I need to deliver the placenta and take a few stitches,” he explained to Mary. “It’s not going to be pleasant, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock had a number of experiments planned for a fresh placenta! He’d been looking forward to this for months! “May I watch?” he demanded eagerly.

John chuckled. “No, you may not, mate. I have a much more important job for you. I need you to hold your nephew while his parents are busy.” He took the now sleeping Ian carefully from his mother, wrapped him a bit more snuggly in his blanket, and placed the little bundle into Sherlock’s waiting arms.

If the detective was disappointed about the placenta, he soon forgot all about it. His little nephew briefly opened drowsy lids and looked up at him with Mary’s blue eyes. He then pursed his little lips in the same pensive way John so often did, and fell asleep again. And Sherlock was entranced. Everything about this tiny Watson was astonishing; and nothing was more astonishing than the way this baby made him feel. 

It was suddenly entirely unacceptable that evil should exist in the same world as this little child. All good things should be given freely to this special boy, and all wickedness and ugliness banished to the nether regions, never to be allowed near him. Sherlock vowed in his heart to protect this smallest Watson with his life, and to give him the entire world, and a box to put it in.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice interrupted his reverie. “Sherlock, you can play with it now. It’s all yours.” The doctor was holding out a container.

Sherlock looked up and met his friend’s eyes. “In a minute, John. I’m . . . bonding.”


End file.
